The Ghostess and Mister Muir

by J. L. Salter

  “The other ghost busters?”

  “We prefer Spirit-Chasers.”

  Muir nodded, clearly unimpressed. “The bedroom is a different era altogether,” he pointed. “Take a look while I get some cola. You care for anything to drink?”

  “I’d take sweet tea if you have it,” she called over her shoulder. “If not, water’s fine.” She entered the bedroom apprehensively, realizing Muir was about as far away as one could be and remain inside the suite. “Wow… this sleigh bed and dresser are both awesome, but they look more like Depression era to me. Probably some twenty years newer than that parlor stuff.”

  “That’s kind of what I figured… 1930s. I’ve seen that kind of furniture in lots of old movies.” He extended a glass. “Here’s your water. No tea, sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Lucy took a small swallow. “Are you an old movie buff, Levi?”

  “Not a fanatic and I can’t watch the hokey ones, but some of the films from Hollywood’s golden years are better than anything they produce these days.”

  “Except for the special effects.”

  He smiled. “Of course. And I like CGI as well as anybody, but don’t think they should drive every single movie. What about characters? Or story? It’s like the difference between trashy fiction and classic novels.”

  “So what is that difference, Professor Levi?”

  “One’s just an enjoyable read and the other’s great literature I have to teach to pimply kids.”

  She patted his bicep again, to see if it felt as firm indoors. “Ah, you’re already jaded and school doesn’t start ‘til Monday.”

  Without reply, he sat on the chair near the east window and watched as she settled on the adjacent davenport. “Now, will you finally tell me what’s supposed to be so spooky about this old place?” His hand waved generally toward the twelve foot ceiling and ornate chandelier. “When I asked the manager yesterday afternoon, he acted like he’d seen a ghost.”

  “He probably has… and likely often.”

  “Okay, then you’re not leaving ‘til you explain.”

  Lucy didn’t bristle. She knew she could dodge him if she wanted to, and had already proven she could outrun him. Ha. “All right, you’re the one who has to sleep here,” she said, pausing to let it sink in. “For some hundred years, the whole town knows this place has been haunted and everybody says it’s the same spirit.”

  “All these people have seen this ghost?”

  “No, of course not. For one thing, the entire building was locked up for decades. Then while the first level was being renovated, access to this floor was restricted to only those infrastructure technicians who needed to work here briefly. But even those crusty workmen didn’t want to spend any time on the second floor alone.”

  “Because of this haunting creature.”

  Lucy nodded. “And lovely she was, too. I’ve seen pictures somewhere. A real beauty. At the time, she was considered the most prized catch in this whole area… not even counting that her family was wealthy from their shares of the original timber business which had started this town.”

  “So her father was one of the founders?”

  “Hmm. Might be grandfather, not sure which. There were several old guys in that first consortium. When we see the other material at the archives, maybe we can pin it down if it’s important.”

  Muir sipped his cola and watched her over the top of the bottle.

  “Anyway, she was the prize maiden in these parts and everybody speculated which local society family would produce a prince worthy to wed… when suddenly she was engaged to a man nobody knew. He was definitely not local and there was quite a flap about where he came from. It was also said he didn’t have the right breeding. Whatever. So anyway, out of the blue, she’s engaged and everybody’s talking about the big local wedding to be held in the spring — when suddenly she’s dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “Stepped in front of a moving train,” Lucy pointed northeast, where the tracks crossed the river. “Suicide.”

  “She killed herself?”

  Lucy nodded. “Which is why everybody says she’s stuck here haunting the place. You know, she’s buried right in the corner of the old cemetery next to my duplex. I’ll show you her grave some time.” In fact, just about anytime you’d like.

  “Hold on a minute. Let’s just say I believe your story. The history outline seems plausible, but I still question the spook parts. Why would this poor beautiful girl haunt the hotel? Why not her family home?”

  “There’s a bit of controversy actually, but most folks subscribe to the story that her family was building a fine new mansion either in town or closer to town.”

  “So they’d been living out in the boonies?”

  “Well, along the river, upstream, beyond that old Web mansion which still exists.” She had to close her eyes to envision her mental map. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. So anyway, while they were building this new mansion in town, they took up residence in the hotel.” She scanned Muir’s suite and then stepped to the door to peer out into the hallway. “Like I said, I’m pretty sure it was configured differently then — much larger suite.”

  “Why didn’t they just stay at their old mansion until the new one was finished in town?”

  Lucy frowned. “Not sure. Maybe we can find some hints in the research files.”

  Chapter Five

  Muir watched Lucy inspect his apartment’s interior as though she were an auction appraiser. Even though he visually enjoyed her movement, Muir was puzzled at her fascination with supposed spirit elements. After a deep swallow of cola, he put his bottle on the serving table and moved to the non-functional mantel.

  Lucy returned from the kitchen with a paper towel, which she placed beneath Muir’s beverage. “You’ve got to protect this beautiful old wood.”

  Yeah. “So who was this ghostly old lady?” His eyes followed Lucy on her second visit to the bedroom.

  “Well, she wasn’t old for one thing. Barely eighteen if I remember correctly.” She reconsidered. “Uh, maybe nineteen… not sure. Anyway, from the photos I’ve seen, she was gorgeous.”

  “Define gorgeous. I thought a hundred years ago the ladies were all shapeless, shriveled, and wrinkled.”

  “Oh, Levi, quite the contrary. She was the epitome of a Gibson Girl.”

  Muir squinted to help his memory. “I’ve heard the term and seen some illustrations, but don’t recall much.”

  “Impossibly narrow waist, but generous around here,” both hands pointed to her breasts, “and here,” both to her hips. “Wavy hair, worn up off the neck, floor-length skirts or dresses.”

  “So they didn’t show any leg?” he inquired, already knowing the answer.

  “Maybe in the dance halls.” Lucy smiled. “Why? Are you a leg man, Levi?” she asked, tensing her calf muscle.

  Muir considered his words. “Let’s just say I appreciate beauty, wherever it may appear.”

  “Well, as the song says, a glimpse of stocking was shocking back in the early 1900s, when our ghostess was still alive.”

  “Is this a generic ghost or does our attractive young lady have a name?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Danielle Gregg.” Lucy fingered the carved end panel of the corner bookcase. “The museum next door has a good bit of historical documentation.”

  “So, let’s go.” Patting his pocket for keys, he realized they were on the delicate table near the entrance.

  “Hold on. I’m not dressed for a museum visit.” She waved her hand over the tanned expanse of her toned legs. “Besides, I don’t think the archives portion is even open on weekends. Like I said, we’ll go after school one day.”

  Muir’s reply emerged before he even realized what he was saying. “But I need to know now.”

  “Why? What’s the rush?”

  He studied the chandelier. “Not certain, but I have a sense that it’s urgent.” It definitely felt that way. All of a sudden, too.

  “Ten seconds ago you
were scoffing about ghosts and dissing shriveled women but now you can’t wait to know more about them… or her.”

  “Can’t explain it, Lucy. It just came over me.” Very odd.

  She walked toward the fireplace and peered into his face. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, not at all.” He shook his head. “It’s a sudden urgency to know more about this person, or this place… maybe both.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” She stretched again and rocked her head back and forth a few times to stretch her neck. “Oh, hold on, just remembered something. There’s a rumor she had a portrait done. So lifelike, it’s practically a studio photograph. Supposedly still in this hotel somewhere.”

  “Where? I have to see it.” But no idea why.

  “Nobody knows where, if it even still exists.” Obviously noting his disappointment, she lightly whapped his elbow. “Maybe we’ll find a copy of it at the museum next week.”

  “I need to see the original.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure I can explain.” And don’t understand myself.

  Lucy moved toward the east-facing window and studied the spot on the sidewalk where they’d stood earlier. “Hey, why not call your manager? Maybe Mr. Coombe knows.”

  “Good idea.” Muir hustled to the small desk in his bedroom. With his checkbook was a small stack of local business cards. “Here it is — Coombe.” He grabbed his phone and punched in the number.

  After six rings, the manager answered.

  Rather breathlessly, and without any initial pleasantries, Muir asked about the painting.

  “Why is it so important?” Coombe tried to brush him off. “This is my weekend.”

  “Look, you said you’ve had trouble keeping this suite rented. Well, I’m renting and plan to stay, but I’m going to need a little cooperation from you to make this work. Do you know where the painting is or not?”

  From a few feet away, Lucy made a theatrically scary face and positioned her fingers like claws.

  Coombe sputtered a bit into the phone. “Well, I’m not certain your, uh, item is included, but years ago somebody deposited a few framed pieces in the store room…”

  “Where’s that?” interrupted Muir.

  “The same relative position as my office, but on the far side of the building.”

  Muir winked at Lucy. “West side of the first floor?”

  “Yes,” grunted the manager. “And this could have waited until Monday.”

  Muir ignored the complaint. “How do I get in?”

  “If your front door key doesn’t work, try the third key I gave you.” Coombe sighed. “That storeroom’s not used for much. Most people refuse to go in there.”

  “Why?”

  When Coombe ended the call without replying to the final question, Muir glared at his phone briefly before turning it off.

  Smiling at an obviously positive development, Lucy moved to his side. “What did he say?”

  Muir impulsively hugged her and kept squeezing. “Our beautiful damsel is locked in the storeroom downstairs. Let’s go rescue her.”

  ****

  It was a surprising embrace, but ended so quickly Lucy wasn‘t certain she’d hugged him back. On their way down to the storeroom, she asked to hear the rest of Mr. Coombe’s comments, which Muir dutifully relayed, though it was clear his mind was on the portrait of the ghostess. He tried all three keys, but none worked and Muir became visibly frustrated.

  “Here, let me try,” she said. “Might need a woman’s touch.” After jiggling the unmarked key a bit, she got the door open… with an agonizing creak. She couldn’t restrain a gasp. Inside was spooky and dark, and the light switch didn’t work.

  Muir merely looked impatient.

  Lucy, however, had a thousand goose bumps. “Maybe the bulb’s burned out.”

  With a disgusted sigh, Muir went out to his truck for a flashlight… leaving Lucy alone in the storeroom for a lengthy three minutes and 42 seconds.

  During that eternity in the dark, she poked around a bit, but felt such a chill that she wrapped her arms across her chest and was backing out of the room when, “Yikes!” Muir appeared directly behind her and tapped her trembling shoulder with the flashlight.

  “Sorry. Here’s your light.”

  “Don’t do that!” She snatched it from his hands. “No wonder nobody comes in this place… gives me the creeps.” Lucy moved the rather weak beam of light across the plentiful dark shelves and boxes, revealing ominous shadows.

  “Maybe your spirit chasers should spend the night in here and take some readings,” suggested Muir with a crooked smile.

  “I’ll be sure to recommend that at our next meeting.” Partly diffusing the gloom with Muir’s pitiful light, Lucy turned to him. “Are you cold?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “I’m freezing.”

  He pointed to her bosom, where the chill’s effects were particularly visible. “Well, you’re dressed in skintight spandex for run-walking outdoors in August.”

  She cleared her throat, quickly crossed her arms again and turned away slightly. “And what is that smell?”

  Muir reached for the flashlight and began sniffing the room. “Not sure, but it’s definitely not the same one I mentioned before.” He followed his nose to a spot beside a sagging cardboard box near the far corner. “Here it is,” he announced, waggling the dim beam over the spot. “A dead rat.”

  “Yuck.” Lucy started retreating again. “Look, this has been real fun, but with the Arctic temperature and all these dead bodies lying around, I’m not sure I can stand it. Next thing you know, the door will slam shut and I’ll jump about twelve feet.”

  Both sets of eyes immediately zoomed to their only exit and peered through the gloom as a tiny gust of something moved the door about three millimeters.

  “That’s it. I’m outta here.” She zipped so close to Muir, they were almost in the same spot.

  “Hold on a minute, Lucy.” He kicked a small box into position to block open the doorway. “We haven’t had a chance to inspect everything.”

  “Well, if we don’t find a picture in exactly sixty seconds, I’m gone.” But she settled down enough to resume searching.

  At first they didn’t locate any framed pieces at all, just haphazardly stacked boxes lining the antique, sagging shelves… and a few pieces of dusty furniture scattered on the floor. Small piles of old magazines and newspapers filled in the few gaps.

  Then, in a far corner, Lucy spotted some frames leaning against the wall, with one edge on top of waist-high boxes. Her hands were already on the first one when Muir arrived with the light. “Ow!”

  “What happened?” Muir squinted in the darkness.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Not a rat bite, is it?” He probably grinned.

  “Oh, ha ha. Splinter, maybe.” She held the finger very close to her eyes but couldn’t see anything. “Bring that light closer.”

  As he shifted his flashlight, the beam struck the face of a beautiful woman and Lucy shrieked. Her insides turned to ice.

  “What?”

  The face was so vividly lifelike it seemed she was in the room with them. “That’s her!” Lucy pointed. “Danielle Gregg.” Her heart raced about two hundred beats per minute.

  “Wow, she is a hottie.” Muir hustled over and examined the portrait calmly.

  After her heart rate and breathing began to settle down, Lucy also inspected the artwork, though from a distance. “Well, you can’t tell much from these old paintings. The artists usually exaggerated their best features and hid all their warts.”

  A sudden low groan made both of them jump.

  “What was that?”

  Muir flicked the light around. “Don’t know. Maybe some air in the pipes.”

  “What pipes? There’s no plumbing in this storeroom.”

  “Might be a restroom next door. I don’t know.” He finally looked a little anxious too. “But let’s take the painting
upstairs where we can see. I want to check out this lovely lady.”

  Taking care not to step on the dead rat, Lucy hurried out and immediately noticed the contrasting warmth of the hallway. She held the flashlight while Muir lugged the sizeable painting.

  Upstairs, the portrait resting against the wall next to the dormant fireplace, they studied it from various angles and distances. The image cropped the subject at about mid-thigh but her visible features appeared to be approximately life-sized. Though framed in massive fine walnut, the portrait itself was about two feet wide and three-and-a-half feet tall.

  “No question this is Danielle Gregg — I’ve seen photos of her portrait in several sources.”

  Muir pointed toward the east-facing window. “This is definitely the same lady I saw from the sidewalk last night.” He scrutinized the bottom corners. “Can you tell when this was painted?”

  “Well, it has to be before 1914 when she died, but she looks fully mature here, so I’d guess it was probably earlier that year or possibly the year before. Let’s say she was about nineteen at that point.”

  “What kind of costume? I mean…”

  Lucy positioned herself to take advantage of the best lighting. “Well, this is the epitome of a Gibson Girl. Wavy hair worn up, tiny waist, generous bust and hips.”

  “I’m surprised how much skin she’s showing,” said Muir as he pointed to the flesh above her neckline.

  “Well, that was only for very formal situations, such as a society ball or an expensive portrait. The normal everyday wear for an upper class lady would have had her bosom covered up to the chin. Probably two dozen buttons.”

  Muir couldn’t take his eyes off the painting. “She’s positively gorgeous.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Romeo. First of all, she’s been dead for a hundred years. Secondly, once you remove all those whalebone corsets and bustles — and whatever else they strapped on — the women of that time probably looked a lot like we do.”